


Passive/Aggressive

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel comes back for his sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passive/Aggressive

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 7.21.
> 
> A contribution to [Megstiel/Casmeg Week](http://megstielweek.tumblr.com/).

"There's a garden here," Castiel says. He smiles hopefully; he looks soft. "I'd like to visit it."

So Meg takes him downstairs and outside and sets him loose to wander his round-eyed way through the hospital's courtyard. He stares up into the spring-green branches of trees; peers down at the cropped grass; tracks a bee around some hollyhocks, then an ant across the paving stones. Meg watches him with her back pressed to the gritty brick wall and her arms folded tightly across her chest.

Hours later--it was barely dawn when they came outside, and now the sun's high and bright overhead and Cas is still delightedly investigating things crawling on dandelions--the tense monotony of it all is disrupted by a commotion on the patio. "Time to come inside for lunch, Dorothea," Abel's saying, quiet and firm and frustrated, while the demented old bat shakes her head and fights his grip and calls him names, each louder and uglier than the last. It's entertaining--Meg enjoys the brief distraction--but when she looks back at Castiel, he's gone stiff with alarm, staring anxiously at the scene on the flagstones, his hands fisted at his sides.

Then he's gone. Meg startles off the wall like it's been consecrated out from under her.

Less than five minutes later, she finds him in the day room. He sits at a table in the back corner; he faces the wall, his back to the door. Meg crosses the room in a relieved fury, but slows as she draws up next to him, biting back her instinctive sharp words: on his thigh, his hand is curled tight around the adamant gleam of angelic metal.

"What's with the sword, Cas?" she says instead, low and almost friendly. She stops right beside him, her body angled to block the view of the other patients in the room, the woman running their art therapy class, the nurse overseeing them all. "Kinda like bringing a nuclear missile to a birthday party, dontcha think?"

Castiel looks unhappily at the weapon in his hand. "When a bee stings, its barbed stinger embeds firmly in the skin of its victim and tears from the bee's abdomen. The bee is mutilated to such an extent that it dies within minutes." He blinks up at her, quietly yearning. "They're incapable of surviving their own violence against others."

Frustration seethes through her, fired with dismay. This is the fallen angel up her sleeve; he's broken, and she's fucked. She's _fucked_. "Put it away," she hisses, and he drops his gaze back to his lap, abashed. "You want somebody to see you with that thing? They'll try to confiscate it. You know how that'll go, right?"

His head jerks up again. "No," he breathes. His expression hollows with terror, mouth slack and eyes dilating. "These people--a confrontation, I can't--so disproportionate--no, I shouldn't--"

There's a straw here, thin and quivering. Meg calms herself and reaches out, carefully, to grasp it. "Okay. Okay, Cas, then how about this." His babbling stops; his tormented attention lands imploringly on her. She smiles. "Why don't you let me hold onto it for you?"

She wants him to agree, but doesn't really expect it: he can't be that far gone, despite the garden and the softness and the fear. But after only a moment's thought he straightens in his chair, and his agitation settles, and fuck if he doesn't just hold the thing up to her, easy and open and eager. "Would you? That's very responsible, Meg, thank you." When she takes it from his palm, he relaxes like she's lifted the weight of the universe from him. "I certainly won't be using it anymore."

He sounds so satisfied. She doesn't say, _That's both the point and the problem, Clarence._

The divinity in the sword reacts to her touch with a warning sting of heat, power just this side of pain. Later, when Meg stabs the blonde angel bitch that came for Cas, she feels her death through the weapon like the whole-body thud of holding a live wire.

Castiel looks up at her from the floor, passive and bloody and disappointed.

Meg tightens her grip.

* * *

The cottage Meg chooses for her bolt-hole sits on a spit of land licked on three sides by the ocean, with a defunct railyard not two miles due east. Navigating past the iron is tricky, and all the salt clutches at her like claustrophobia, rasps her raw with every breeze off the water, but even if she had someone to complain to, she wouldn't. She's never seen survival look anything like comfort.

Her wards are fresh and whole and strong; Castiel shouldn't be able to find her, but he does. He stands unassumingly on the sand-worn wooden stairs outside her door, toes the boundary of her anti-angel protections, and beams with simple, patient pleasure while she replays every step she took to build her defenses, trying to find her mistake. "I wonder," he says eventually, his fond smile crinkling the skin around his eyes, "whether your suffering would be so lovely if you weren't a demon. What do you think?"

Meg sighs and scratches her thumbnail through her angel-proofing.

He's come for his sword. "It was so covered in blood already," he says ruefully, standing in the middle of the cottage's small, dated kitchen. "I shouldn't have given it to you."

Meg shrugs. "Couldn't have saved your life without it."

"No, but even so--"

"Even so fucking what?" He cringes, ducking his head. His fingers pluck at his trenchcoat, catch the dangling ends of its belt, fret them distractedly. His dithering scrapes between Meg's shoulderblades and down the length of her spine; she reaches behind herself, draws the sword from her waistband and holds it up, catching his eye. "You want it back?" she dares, deliberate and brutal. "Take it."

His entire body stammers in distress. He's a badly set bone, Meg thinks; he broke himself without any idea what he was doing, and he mended all wrong, weak and useless. He needs to be broken again.

She could do it. She could take him apart, then piece him back together into something functional.

But Castiel just stands there, faltering painfully. His gaze darts between the sword and her face. He shuffles his feet. His eyes fill with anguish.

He flees.

A needy ache radiates through Meg's fingers. She begins rewriting her sigils.

* * *

Meg has been bleeding for hours. Her arm is a glistening sleeve of red; her sweaty fingers sting the gash every time she dips in for fresh paint.

She's two lines from sealing her new wards when Castiel is there, clamping his hand over the cut on her arm, crowding her roughly against the wall, pushing his mouth onto hers. He kisses her hard and deep, like he wants to pull her right out of her body and swallow her down.

By the time he pulls back, just enough to breathe, Meg's already laughing. She drags her eyes open; Castiel is looking down at her with the kind of focused intent she hasn't seen from him since he woke up. "There he is," she murmurs, arousal coiling through her low and viscous. "Welcome back, Clarence."

He's hard against her hip through her jeans and his thin white hospital pants. Meg fists her bloody hands in the lapels of his coat and kisses him again.

There's no air conditioning in the cottage, and the west wall is a line of picture windows that catch the afternoon sun over the water like a magnifying glass. Late in the day, the whole place becomes heavy with heat; the air turns stagnant and stifling, sweltering down on Meg with physical pressure. Aside from the protections afforded by the cottage's location, this is what she likes best about it.

Castiel's face buried in her cunt is better, his hot mouth open, his hot tongue firm and filthy as it licks her up and slips inside. Meg wonders dizzily if he's working with meatsuit memory or just angelic ignorance of shame; however he's doing it, she makes throaty noises and rides, the burn building up inside her almost like it does in Hell.

Her leg's bent over his shoulder, her heel digging into his back; she feels his hair damp and ticklish on the inside of her thigh, his stubble a prickling scrape. His hands are cupped to her ass, tilting her up, _pressing_ her up against him as he mouths and sucks and fucks her with his tongue, and oh, she could live in this heat, spend forever in the delicious hellfire simmer of having a goddamn angel held tight to the mindless push of her hips.

But Castiel makes her come, relentless as undertow; drags a second orgasm from her as she's still cursing the first, and she claws her hands on his skull and arches helplessly up off the bed.

When she falls back, he follows, crawling up her buzzing body until he's stretched fully over her, kissing her lushly. Meg tastes herself in his slick, wicked mouth; smells herself all over him, human and demon both smeared through his clean angel-scent in a thick, heady mess. For a long moment, she lets him press her down into the mattress; then, the head of his dick nudges at her, hard and blunt where she's still over-sensitive, and she breaks away with a sharp sound. She's not going to let him fuck her like that, held beneath him, taking it. She's not going to make it that easy.

He shouldn't want it that easy.

She pushes at his chest, pushes him back; he goes where she wants him, settling on his haunches with a pliancy that puts a feral curl in her lip. But his eyes are avid, steady on her like a brand as she rises and kneels astride his lap; his shoulders are tense lines under her hands as she sinks down.

Meg starts a slow rhythm, punishing and provocative; Castiel makes a raspy little noise and curves one hand over her hip to palm at the base of her spine. His other hand goes into her hair, his fingers flexing, and she tilts her head back a little, wanting him to tangle in the sweaty strands and pull.

He doesn't. For an indeterminate, interminable stretch, he just holds onto her, breathing in her gasped-out air, watching her fuck herself on his cock. His passivity is like rusty iron, an edge of that broken, jarring wrongness Meg hates so much; angry and wanting, she scores her nails across his back, bites the line of his jaw, feels the barely-checked threat of his attention and provokes him, _provokes_ him. Finally, with a molten shift, he starts rocking his hips beneath her, meeting her pace with his own short, rough thrusts.

And then it's not slow anymore. It's not easy. They fuck with the violence of true believers in the broad, burning light of day, and Meg comes again thinking: yes, fuck, like _this_.

His rhythm stutters cruelly through her aftershocks; she clutches at his straining body as he pushes his cock into her with ragged, forceful shoves. "Come on," she mutters, glaring at the dark glint in his eyes, at the full, slack shape of his mouth, "come on--"

He stills, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening. His hands close on her hard enough to hurt, to bruise, to mark her up, and then he's coming, pulsing hot and sudden inside her. She works him through it mercilessly, rolling her hips until there's nothing left for her to ride.

When he's done, Meg slides off his lap and sprawls out languidly, aching and shameless atop the rumpled sheets, a freshly-fucked angel kneeling in the vee of her legs. Pleased and proud, she stretches deliberately under Castiel's blown-glass gaze; by chance, her hand slips under her pillow, and she stills, arching her brow in surprise. "Well, aren't you an honourable little perversion of divinity," she drawls, amused, and her hand comes back out wrapped around the hilt of Castiel's sword. "I thought you'd've lifted this back by now."

Castiel's slow survey of her body stops. He stares at the sword, his pupils contracting. He doesn't move, but all at once he's collapsed: his gaze flickers down and away; the lines of his body that felt so strong and powerful under Meg's hands disjoint under his skin, dissolve into guilty uncertainty. The things that made him such a gloriously obscene picture a moment before--his hair a carded mess, his pale skin marked red by Meg's nails, his dick lying soft and spent between his thighs--now just make him look vulnerable.

Meg goes cold.

Without looking at her, Castiel reaches out and wraps his hand around her ankle, the hand he bloodied on her arm when he arrived. By now, the blood's mostly wiped off on their clothes, on the sheets, on Meg; what little remains, seeped into the lines on Castiel's palm, is mingled with sweat. He touches her lightly, gentle and tentative, like a plea.

Meg kicks him viciously off. "You fucking coward," she spits, scrambling out of his reach, backing away until she fetches up painfully against the headboard. Castiel flinches at the noise of her elbow cracking against the wood, and Meg hates him, the worthless bastard, she _hates_ him. "Take it," she bites out, flipping the sword to hold it by the blade, pointing it at him hilt-first. "Take it!"

He does. He holds it reluctantly, but with a weight of resignation in his grip. Like it's a punishment.

He barely stirs the oppressive air as he leaves.

Meg carves into her arm until the knife nicks bone. Her hands shake as she finishes her wards.


End file.
